Back to Russia

Photos here. I leave Ulanbataar on a sunny afternoon. It gets progressively windy and cold as I leave the capital behind. Before darkness I ask for permission to pitch the tent next to a ger. The wind is howling and I fear a chilly night but when I start getting my tent out, the friendly people from the ger invite me to spend the night inside and I accept. Milk tea and snacks of bread and cheese are offered. It looks like the women are working in a potato field nearby and the men are herders, all of them dressed in traditional coats. A sheep is very carefully slaughtered and skinned. There's a total of 8 people in the ger. Some of them get up several times in the middle of night, get out and scream but although I know it's something to do with the livestock, I don't understand what's happening. Next morning I'm offered a horseback ride but I feel like Gulliver in Liliput. Nearby, a Buddhist cemetery and a statue of Buddha is being erected. After breakfast, I hit the road. It's getting warmer. In the evening, I set up camp next to another ger. A very chatty child talks and whispers to my ear. More milk tea and bread and cheese sticks. Wholesome Mongolian livelihood.

The following day I reach Bayangol, where the road meets the railway. I decide to take the train to Sukhbatar (150 km), near the Russian border, to make sure that I leave within my 30-day visa period. But I forget my mobile phone at the station and I must wait one day to get it back in Sukhbatar.

I leave Sukhbatar at around 7 in the morning. The border is 25 km away and I anticipate lots of red tape. In spite of the big queues and the Russians suspecting that my passport might be forged, I get through in less than one hour.

Everything looks very different after the border. The treeless steppe fade into lush forests and European faces are now in majority. The food in the cafe is varied and delicious. Buryatia. I have headwind for three days. Also rain and snow. Plus it's very hilly. In Kalinishnaya, Sveta, a Buryat woman, hosts me for the night. I'm very moved by her gesture. Next day, it's sunny but still very cold and with headwind, I realise that I'm not enjoying this and I get a lift to Ulan Ude, 120 kms away. But then in Ulan Ude, the weather gets really good again and I cycle to lake Baikal.

Even though is relatively warm during the day, I spend my first night out of Ulan Ude in the tent and the temperature drops to around -5 or -7 in the evening. I'm wearing everything I have on but I can hardly sleep. Next day I'm determined to find a cheap hotel along the road. The next big place is Kabansk but no hotels there and I ask around in the village of Nyuki and then a woman offers me to stay at her place with her familiy for the night. Saved from freezing! Lovely company, food and even banya!

The following day I get acquainted with lake Baikal. I realise how lucky I am. It's sunny and warm. The autumn colours are stunningly beautiful. In Babushkin, again, no hotels, but I manage to find accommodation in a private house. The next day I take a train to Irkutsk. Two sadistic train attendants give me a hard time in regards to the bicycle and try to get money from me but I refuse. I make an alliance with a third, kind, attendant and all's good in the end, except for when one of these crazy women hit me with a door.

From Irkutsk I take the train to Moscow.

Last leg to Ulanbataar

Photos here. In Tsetserleg I'm ready to tackle the last 520 kms or so to Ulaanbataar. The asphalt road begins here but it vanishes after 20 kms and reappears again shortly before Karakorum, the ancient capital of Mongolia. As I'm approaching Karakorum, I seek shelter from the scorching sun the in the shade of a fly-ridden cafe by the side of the road and on my way out I see the unmistakeable silhouette of two cyling tourists but it takes me a few seconds to react and when I stop the bike, the cyclists are upon me. They are Anka and Uve, a couple from Stuttgart, 46 and 49 respectively. We make plans to have a beer together at the only cafe with a veranda in Karakorum, but when we get there we find out that this one of two non-drinking days when selling alcohol is prohibited so we have to drink indoors. This is not a problem because there's a big table in the courtyard where the gers are located and we have an excellent view of a clear and starry sky. I enjoy the company of the German cyclists. Anka and Uve are two adventurous travellers who have met relatively recently and this is their first cycling trip together. Anka is a freelance editor and Uve is a programmer for IBM. Next day I visit Erdene Zuu monastery and the following day it's my birthday. Anka and Uve give me an apple cake and soon make their way to Ulaanbataar on a bus and from there they will catch a plane back to Germany. To celebrate my birthday and because there's no one else left in the ger camp (there's a group of French tourists the day before but they're all gone), I decide to hike in the Orkhon valley. I walk past the river where I have taken a bath the day before and I go up the mountains where I find myself amidst forests for the first time since entering Mongolia. I do occassionally see trees on the tops of distant hills and they always seem to be retreating, running out of sight. A limping dog accompanies me all the way for the whole day. When I return to Karakorum I'm going to buy some meat for my canine friend but he goes off to feed on the decompossing carcass of a cow.

The following day I run into yet more cycling tourists. They're Mike from Germany and Nichole from Switzerland. We make vague plans to camp together for the night but it doesn't happen. In the evening I notice lots of smoke clouds on the road but I can't see any fire and soon I realise that they're clouds of small flies, millions of them and they go into my eyes and mouth and soon I'm covered in them. As I can't find any discreet place to camp, I ask the occupants of a random ger for permission to pitch my next to them. Darkness sets in quickly, the wind is howling and I'm cooking some rice. Then the Mongolian herder comes out and asks me to try the meal I'm preparing and invites me in the ger for drinks and dinner. The ger is lit by a candle and the light from a wind up lantern. There are two freshly slaughtered sheep on the floor. The herder is carefully skinning and cutting up one of the sheeps. The woman is boiling meat on the stove. I'm offered the usual salty milky tea and bread sticks and I politely refuse to eat meat with the excuse that I'm full. Next day I come into the ger for breakfast and the woman is cracking the sheep skulls open with an iron rod. I bid farewell to these friendly people and hit the road. It's drizzling and very cold. If the Mongolian steppes are desolate, grey skies and strong winds make them look like otherwordly landscapes, where life is not possible. As I keep thinking how inhospitable and harsh Mongolia, there's always a ger in sight where I can turn to for a bit of warmth or hospitality.

At the end of the day, I reach Lun, 130 kms from Ulaanbataar and make a pit stop at a cafe, where a Mongolian geologist is helping me with the menu. At this stage, my staple food is 'tsuivan', a plate of noodles that can be prepared without meat. While I'm showing my map to the geologist, I catch of glimpse of Mike and Nichole, the cyclists I met the day before. We decide to share a room for the night and have a beer together. Mike cycled from Alaska to Patagonia and met Nichole in Bolivia. Mike's initial plan was to continue cycling to New Zealand but he went to Europe instead. He flew to Portugal and cycled to Nichole's, arriving during a snow storm. Mike and Nichole live together near Zurich.

80 kms before Ulaanbataar I take a detour to visit Khustain national park, where the famous Prewalski horses live. These horses became extinct in the wild and were successfully reintroduced in this park, where around 200 of them live. The road is very sandy and have to push the bike for long stretches but it's worthwhile and moving to see these horses roaming free.

The following day I  arrive in Ulaanbataar. After three weeks in Mongolia, it's hard to believe how busy and bustling the capital is. Traffic is heavy, streets are busy, shops are plentiful and international restaurants abound.

The van and the paleontologists

One day, a Mongolian herdsman on a motorcycle steals my bike pump. Next day, another Mongolian herdsman on a motorcycle lends me his and takes me to the closest town to buy one. Armed with a new pump and lots of patches, I'm ready to roll again.

But if it has been already extremely difficult to ride on sandy and rocky tracks with small 20 inch wheels and MTB tires, it is clear to me now that I won't make it on the tough Mongolian roads with my narrow (1.35 inch) rear replacement road tire, with barely any traction. With a heavy heart, I decide to return to Ulaangom, from where I will try to reach Tsetserleg, around 700 kms away and where I can resume cycling on the more manageable 520 km road to Ulaanbator.

Two days earlier in Ulaangom, I had bumped into a group of paleontologists doing field work in the area. One of them, had given me his mobile number and it occurs to me to give him a call and find out if they're heading to the capital any time soon. Good news is they're planning to go there in the next couple of days. Bad news is that one of their vehicles has broken down and they're waiting for a replacement piece to be air freighted from Ulanbator.

Whatever happens, I must return to Ulaangom, from where there are more options available to head towards the capital. Night is falling and as I'm getting ready to pitch my tent, I can see in the distance a cloud of dust. I run to the road and ask this car to stop. They agree to give me a ride on the dustiest car I've ever seen. Inside there's the driver, a man of 35, and three elderly people, two men and a woman, dressed in traditional Mongolian garb and... drunk. Soon they produce a bottle of vodka and I take a sip. Everyone is drinking and singing as the car speeds along the bumpy and dark road. I wonder if we'll ever make it to Ulaangom. We loose our way a couple of times but after three hours we reach Ulaangom. The driver, Bayaana, invites me to stay at his place for the night. His family prepares a very special meal: noodles with mutton meat. As a vegetarian, I'm not looking forward to this. Next day, I feel sick in my stomach. I spend an hour removing dust and sand from the bike and I head for the hotel where I meet Bayaara, the Mongolian geologist whose vehicle is stuck and waiting for a piece from the capital. I have with me about 3 kilos of dried horse milk, cheese and bread from the generous Mongolian herdsman who helped me with the pump and the family in Ulaangom.

Bayaara is a character. In his early 40s, divorced and with two children living in the USA, this stout Mongolian is a chatterbox and a very entertaining story teller. Animated by early morning beers, he tells me about Mongolian people's inner compass, how to survive in the field, the freedom of the Mongolian steppes, mining, natural versus processed food and America. The desired piece from Ulaanbator arrives and the second hand Japanese four wheel drive with a million aftermarket parts is finally fixed. In the afternoon, we head out of Ulaangom to meet the team of international paleontologist, some 100 kms away. A couple of kilometers out of town, the car breaks down again and is towed back to the hotel. The second vehicle, a four wheel drive Russian mini van, leaves again to bring the paleontologists back and I'm in Ulaangom again, in the company of Bayaara and dead tired. When I go to bed, Bayaara is watching Mongolian news on TV and playing a 1st person shooter on his laptop, drinking beer and smoking. I fall asleep very quickly.

The following day, the team arrives. It's Martin from Canada, Anna, from the US and Rob from England. They're looking for fish fossils. It's decided that the Russian van will tow the Japanese SUV back to Ulaanbator and the rest of us, the three paleontologists, a Mongolian geologist and the cook, will hire a private minivan. In the afternoon we leave. The weather has changed very rapidly, from scorching heat to a sand storm, then rain and later very strong wind. We spend our first night in a ger 80 kms from Ulaangom. It's windy, chilly and bleak for three days until we reach Tsetserleg. 

In Tsetserleg, I bid farewell to the paleontologists. From here, I will ride the bike the remaining 520 kms to Ulaanbator.

Desert hiccup

It's raining cats and dogs when we enter Mongolia. Having spent most of the day clearing borders, it's late when we arrive at Zaganuur, the first settlement in Mongolia. Zaganuur is a Kazakh town and looks like it's been bombed. It's bitterly cold, fiercely windy and overcast. The landscape is rocky and arid. It's dark and bleak. We dread setting up camp. While we're outside of the local shop, a suave young man approaches us and invites us to stay at his yurt. We accept the invitation but when we reach the placed he indicates, a group of excited men demands large amounts of money from us. We say we don't want to pay that kind of money and we make our exit but then they tell us that we can camp next to the yurt for free. When we go to the designated camping place we find out that it's not really next to a yurt but rather within the goat's yard and away from the yurt. Looks like we have to pitch our tent on top of goat excrement but at least it's sheltered. As we're getting ready to pitch the tents, some of the men from before plus a new group turns up and they try to lead us to another place. We refuse and insist on pitching the tents but they seem adamant for us to spend the night somewhere else. Eventually they agree to let us set up camp at the goat-yard... for what we deem an unreasonable sum of money. We decide to stop negotiating and we leave. It's pitch black. While we try to find a reasonable camping spot, lots of people emerge from the darkness. Some of these people invite us to stay with them. We're desperate. Why won't these people leave us alone? We make it very clear we don't want to pay any money. They say it's okay and lead lead us to a dusty hut where they're making dried milk on a stove. They put a felt blanket on the floor and soon the place becomes warm and cozy.

While the Czech guys are making themselves comfortable in the hut, I step into the yurt next door, where the family is staying. They offer me some snacks of cheese and salted butter tea. One of the men sings a couple of beautiful Kazakhs songs accompanied by a three stringed lute. While not singing, a faint thread of Kazakh music comes from the radio. Later the Czech guys come in the yurt and give the family a present of rice and small toys for the children. Tucked into our sleeping bags we savour the perfection of this moment, sleeping in the hut warmed by a low fire and the the hospitality of this Kazakh family.

At around 6 in the morning the following day the sun is shining and we can see that they have around one hundred goats in the yard. There's a small lake at a walking distance. Out of the blue, a young Western man with a large beard walks into the compound. He's a Polish man on his way out of after two months in Mongolia. He tells us that one night he camped next to a minuscule creek and that at night he was rudely awaken by a flash flood. He could only save his sleeping bag, his passport, a knife and his camera. All his money and the tent were gone. He survived through the hospitality of Mongolian people and moved around hitch hiking. After one month, he tried to enter Russia border but his visa didn't start until a month earlier so he was invited to return to Mongolia and try again in one month. He returned to Ulanbator, got some money wired and, with two other friends, bought some horses. Soon one of the horses was stolen and eventually they sold the two remaining horses. Soon his friends left and he continued his travels alone until he met a Ukrainian man with whom he shared the last of his Mongolian adventures. In spite of his misfortunes, he kept going and he's still smiling.

We say goodbye to the Kazakh family and with our spirits up, we set off to Ulanbator, around 1,400 kms away. The tracks are full of rocks and sand and the going is very difficult. Later in the day, we have to ford a river. The temperature rises dramatically and the sun is burning. Exhausted, we set up camp in the sandy steppe. We realise that we have been robbed while staying with the Kazakh family. I'm missing a pair of trousers, a handmade wooden carving from Altay, a pack of pasta, sun screen and a bicycle strap. Ondrej and Hana are missing a mobile phone, fifty five dollars in cash and some other small bits and bobs. We can't believe that the same family that would give us hospitality would rob us.It's a tough world.

The next day we climb the Ogotor Khamar pass. Tracks are very sandy and my wheels get stuck. I fall off the bike several times. Ever since entering Mongolia I get a couple of punctures a day. As I climb up the pass on very steep and sandy tracks, I see what looks like a dead bear on the side of the road. The sun is hammering. I consider the consequences of getting stuck in these mountains, without the ability to use a mobile phone, with almost non-existent traffic, a limited supply of water and with a large population of wolves. At around 7 in the evening, I arrive at our meeting point, a camp-site on the shores of Uureg Nuur, a salty lake. It's very windy. A man with three children comes on a motorcycle and gives us some cheese.

The following day is even more challenging, with three substantial passes before Ulaangom, the first major town in Mongolia. When I arrive at the campsite, it's already dark. This day I've had two punctures.

In Ulaangom, we stock up on supplies. Ulaangom is a dusty town in the middle of the desert. In the evening, we camp next to a river. The sky is clear and we chit chat while we admire the starts and make wishes when we spot a shooting star. Life is good.

The following day, the sun is hitting so hard that it hurts and although it's scorching hot, I have to wear long trousers and a long sleeved shirt. The road is very sandy and corrugated and the going is very heavy. In the second half of the day, I notice the back brakes are not working properly. The back wheel is very buckled. I do some truing on the side of the road and disengage the back brakes. As I'm getting close to our evening camp site, the tube in the back wheel explodes. The sidewall of the rear tire is ripped and ruined, after only a few days in Mongolia. I must replace it with a very narrow road tire. With a heavy heart, I realise that it may not be possible to ride these super tough Mongolian tracks on a slim road tire. Nevertheless, I keep on going to our evening meeting point, which is about 18 kms away. Then I get another puncture. I remind myself to be careful as I only have one patch left. But I can't find my pump. It dawns on me that the two young and drunk Mongolian herders on a motorcycle who had stopped while I was fixing the bike earlier, had stolen my pump.

Here I am, stuck in the desert, in what I would describe as a low point. With a puncture and without the means to fix it, with a ruined mountain tire, one patch left, a buckled back wheel, a malfunctioning derailleur and a hub in need of repairs. At least, I have enough water for another day. I pitch the tent and try to sleep while I'm thinking about my options.

It's clear to me that I won't make it very far with the bike as it stands. I decide to return to Ulaangom (100 km behind) and acquire a new pump and patches. From there, I will get a try to look for transportation for me and the bicycle to Tsetserleg, where there's a decent road to Ulaanbator, 550 kms away. Next morning, I flag a singing herdsman on a motorcyle and with his help I manage to fix the puncture. I'm mobile again! This herdsman invites me to his ger (or yurt), where he offers me snacks of dried horse milk. They're very hard and very bitter. Later, he takes me on his motorcycle, along with his wife, to Malchin, where I buy a new pump. In the late afternoon, with enough water for two days and bag full of dry milk bricks, I set off for Ulaangom. I suddenly remember that in Ulaangom I have met a group of international paleontologists that were heading to Ulaanbator imminently. To be continued... Photos here.

And here my troubles begin

Tashanta is an ugly Kazakh town on the border with Mongolia. Here we meet many people participating in the Mongol Rally. One of them is from Vitoria, my hometown. His name is Sabi, in his 20s, sports many earrings and wears a Basque Beret. He has been in 20 countries in one month.

In Tashanta, there's a wedding and a local guy invites us to spend the night at his yurt. But first we want to get the exit stamp from the immigration office. Here the officer tells me that there's a problem because I haven't registered my visa. I tell him that I have tried to register in Moscow but I was told that no registration was necessary if not staying in one city for more than three days. My host in Omsk also asked at the registration office and he was told the same thing. None of this seems to impress the immigration officer who tells me that I must pay a fine of about 70 euros. He writes something that he calls a 'protocol' which states that I didn't know about registration, which is not true, and then he takes 2000 roubles plus 200 roubles commission. He prints a piece of paper, cuts off a slip and writes the current date. A woman in plaincothes comes, her head down, signs the slip, takes the money and disappears into the houses behind the immigration office. That's it. No receipt. It's a shame that after such lovely experiences, I have to end my stay in this country with the bitter taste of being robbed by a representative of the Russian government. When we come back, we can't find the guy who has invited us to his place and people lead us to the worst hotel I've been to in my life. It's freezing inside and we're being watched by a grumpy old man. I ask this man to make some fire in our room. He makes fire with a bit of lumber and a sack of dry cow dung. The kids pester us. To make things worse, a dozen or so Mongolians appear and the old man wants to put them up in our room. We object. Finally they go somewhere else.

Next day, it's it's all clear to go. There's a 20 km long steep hill which ends on a gate, the last checking point in Russia. After this, the asphalt ends and I'm in Mongolia.

Altay mountains

In Byisk a kid on a bicycle leads me to Trial Sport, where I'm welcome by very friendly staff. They're all into cycling or some type of outdoor sport and they help me with the bike, give me a discount on my purchases, feed me, let me use their computer and make me feel very welcome. As I'm cycling alone I cherish these moments of human warmth and friendship. One of them, Serguey, invites me to have a banya and spend the night with a friend of his. It's almost 7 in the evening and getting late for camping and an invitation for banya is irresistible. Serguey leads me to Timofey's house.

Timofey lives in a wooden house with his wife Lena. He's 38 and owns a small stall where he sells clothes and in his spare time, he paints and loves going to Altay to fish, hike or camp. He's also very religious. He takes me to his local church, gives me a stripey Saint Petersburg sailor shirt, an amulet, a jar of honey, some cucumbers and tomatoes. Finally, he gives me his blessings for the road. 

After over 2,000 kms of flatness and insects, the Altay mountains are a welcome sight to sore eyes. Traffic is very light after Gorno-Altaysk. Mountains, forests, rivers, sun, light traffic and excellent roads make this part of Altay a cycling paradise and a magnet for Russian touristsm who often camp by the side of the road. As the flatness becomes mountain, Russian faces give place to more and more Asiatic faces.

Shortly before Chemal I meet a very interesting character who gives me two thumbs up as cycle past him. He's in his 60s or 70s, is wearing a hat and a blazer and looks like a dandy. Something tells me to stop and we strike a conversation. Alexey is in his 60s or early 70s and is a self proclaimed cowboy and an excellent artist. Alexey brings me vodka, food and cigarettes and he talks about Goya. He takes me to his ramshackle house to show me strikingly beautiful wood carvings that contain traditional Russian and Altay motives and some that are interpretations of Greek myths. I'm very inspired!

After Chemal, tourists are rare. As I'm sitting by a river for a rest and absorbing the paradisical beauty around me I witness a gruesome episode. A Rusian lorry honks the horn to ward off sheep on the road but the aniamls don't move fast enough and the lorry runs them over. In total, 9 sheep dead or half dead with blood and guts spilling out bring an end to this paradisical instant. I'm shocked.

Wild camping becomes more difficult as there always seems to be someone wherever I go. One evening is a fisherman, another is a logger's camp, etc. One time, I find a really good place where the grass has been cut, but as I carry my bicycle there, I find a group of about 6 people making stacks of hay. I'm too tired to move somewhere else so I just ask for permission to sleep there, to which they have no objetction. As the sun sets, the farmers put their tools down and withdraw but across the road, 700 metres away, the loggers are still busy working and I can hear them well into the night and I wonder why they'd be working when it's quite dark. The following day I understand why the loggers were so busy. A lorry is liying on its side with trees spilling on the ground. There's ice on my tent and I'm really cold but the other side of the mountain is hit by sun light so I go there to inspect the accident, make some time and wait until the sun hits my tent and I can get ready to go. One of the guys who was cutting grass the day before comes to talk to me. I don't understand very much but I guess one lesson to take away would be 'you have to make hay while the sun is shining'.

One evening I follow a small track to a place where the trees have been chopped. In the night, I'm startled by the sound of plastic bags and pots outside of my tent. Some dogs have managed to stick their head under the porch of the tent and are scavenging for food in my bags. A few stones send them packing. In the morning, a car is coming up the track. The driver and the passenger get off and invite me for breakfast at their cottage at the end of the track. Crossing a creek trickling down from the mountain, I reach a Russian wooden house and next to it, a traditional Altay construction which resembles a ger in shape but it's made of wood and has pointier ceiling. My hosts are a very hospitable Altay family who give me an excellent breakfast and a bag of a very bitter cheese that that for some reason clogs my throat.

In Aktash, I meet some friends's of Tima's. Jane teaches English at school and his husband is a road engineer. They have a 5 year old son who wants to be a tourist when he grows up and is completely fascinated by Spiderman and my bicycle. Between Aktash and Kos Agach, the landscape starts changing. Kos Agach is a dusty town on the flat and dusty steppe, surrounded by mountains. Many people here are ethnic Kazakhs.

30 kms after Kos-Agach, I meet Ondrej and Hana, the Czech guys, who're camping 200 metres away from the road. The following day I notice we're surrounded by a multitude of large grasshoppers with the ability to fly, have black wings and make a very peculiar noise. After 20 kms we reach Tashanta, a shabby Kazakh town on the border with Mongolia.

U-turn

Quick post. Shortly before Novosibirsk the Czech guys and I go separate ways. Novosibirsk is the third biggest city in Russia and sits exactly in the middle of the country. The local studies museum has a small section on shamanism with explanations in Russian language only. Coincidentally, in the same venue there's special Marc Chagall exhibition. Chagall is one of my favourite painters.

After one day, I hit the road again in direction to Krasnoyarsk. Camping proves stressful as mosquitoes and small flies are plentiful. In fact there are so many flies that it sounds like it's raining flies under my hoodie. It's time to reassess my situation. I have 2,400 kms from this point to the Mongolian border via Krasnoyarks and Irkutsk. I must enter Mongolia before the 2nd of September. That means I have to do 100 kms a day without any rest and without any time for unpredictable events, such as mechanical problems or heavy rain. And I'm fed up with the insects. It might be like this all the way to lake Baikal. On the other hand, I could return to Novosibirsk and enter Mongolia through the Altay mountains. No mosquitoes in the mountains, but it involves 1,400 kms of unpaved roads in Mongolia. I don't know if my bike can take it but it's worth trying. More time in Mongolia and less time in Russia.

In Ojac I take an 'electrichka' train back to Novosibirsk. While waiting at the train station, I meet a man who loves football and gives me a bag full of cucumbers, tomatoes and peppers from his dacha and helps me get the bike on the train. I sit next to his neighbour, lovely Valentina, from the Ukraine, in her 50s and who, before getting off, makes sure our neighbour passenger agress to help me in Novosibirsk. This time, I stay with Serguey in Academgorod. Academgorod is the 'Sillicon valley' of Siberia and Serguey is a C++ developer from Yakutia and a keen cyclist. He's going to Crime on a cycling tour this September. Serguey finds it amusing that I think mosquitoes are too much. In Yakutia they're much worse. Serguey loves Russia and dislikes people who want to leave their country. He loves the fact that people are self reliant, can fix things themselves and  they fix things themselves. He believes in science and walks everywhere. And he walks fast! Serguey helps me find a dentist (this time is final), a hairdresser and a good bike shop where I buy 20 inch BMX tires.

Greta Garbo and Zinedine Zidane

In Omsk, my host is Pasha, a 42-year old Russian hindu who works as TV producer and also owns a small business that installs alarm systems on cars. Pasha looks much younger than his age, does a lot of work-out and yoga and follows dietary advice from his guru in India. Pasha is very spiritual and finds wisdom and inspiration in different religious traditions from around the world. When he was a child, Pasha's teacher at school told him that the Russian cosmonauts had gone to 'heaven' and had not found God. Pasha reported this to his grandmother, who was a very devout Orthodox, and she replied 'they need to go higher!'. Pasha explains to me a theory by which a new race of people will be born out of Omsk to be stewards of a better and more environmentally friendly world. We go on a very long tour of Omsk on Pasha's four wheel vehicle. I'm afraid it might be rude of me to tell him that I'm (car) sick after five minutes so we get on with our our bouncy expedition, which, Pasha being a big fan of recent architecture, includes many modern buildings, and that makes me even more sick. After four or five hours I suggest that we stop to eat and call it a day but Pasha responds that he doesn't need to eat.

At the local bike shop I meet Alosha and Vova, two members of the cycling club in Omsk who invite me to join them for their daily ride with fellow club members, two of which carry huge home made ghetto blasters attached to their sturdy downhill bikes. I'm in bike heaven! Everyone is very curious about my bicycle and I learn that any kind of cycling is considered an 'extreme' sport in Russia. The next day, Vova, Alosha and Timur escort me out of Omsk!

Two days after Omsk, a man at a cafe tells me that he has seen two cyclists pass by an hour earlier. After a month and a half of not seeing a single long distance cycling tourist (except for the Ukrainian guy with the one pedal bike), I want to say hello to these guys so I set out to catch up with them. After a few hours and asking a few people I can't find them, so I figure they're either hidden in a cafe or they are in Tatarsk. Not long after leaving Tatar behind I see the unmistakable shape of touring cyclists on my mirror! My surprise and joy are double because these are none other than Zinedine Zidane and Greta Garbo!

Zinedine and Greta are in reality 28-year-old married Ondre and Hana and they're cycling from the Czech republic to Mongolia and after that they will fly to South East Asia where they will continue their one year grand tour before returning to their country, settle down and resume their normal lifes, Ondre as an architect and Hana as a translator!

The same day we bump into Markus and Markus, two brothers in law from Corinthia, Austria, who're participating in the Mongolian charity rally and driving a small Daewoo car across central Asia into Mongolia. We decide to all camp together. After many perfect wild camping nights the mosquitoes are very numerous and aggressive. Hordes of mosquitoes while camping will become a permanent feature between Omsk and Novosibirsk. An open fire improves things. The Austrians are complaining that going to the toilet in the forest is very painful but Hana braves the insects and takes a cold shower. The rest of us drink pepper vodka, Russian beer and home-made Austrian schnapps.

These are great days of companionship, laughter, mosquito fighting, quick dips into rivers, ice creams and roasted bread. As we get closer to Novisibirsk days are getting hotter and wetter. The day we reach swampy Barabinsk, it's sweltering, wet and hazy. It all looks unreal.

More sketches

Here.

Tyumen to Omsk

Tyumen. Enter Oks, an interior designer and a friend of Boris and Masha's from Yekaterinburg but originally from Nizhny Tagil, a former closed city in the Urals and now a bit of a rough spot with a large ex-prison population. She lives with Anja, who works as an accountant and is also from Nizhny.

Oks loves travelling, cycling, snowboarding and immersing herself in the sweet mist of a waterpipe while day dreaming, recollecting past experiences, reading a book or enjoying the company of friends. Oks likes Nabokov, a master wordsmith and dislikes Tolstoy, because he preaches the reader. One evening Anja, Oks and I go to a lake near Tyumen. We catch sight of a swimming nutria, we drink sweet wine and tea and the girls smoke. A tattooed drunkard in swimming trunks invites me to see arctic bears and to ride on his watercraft. As darkness sets in, the mosquitoes and the drunks disappear, the moon looks at herself on the water and we improvise haikus. Suddenly a car pulls in by the shore and 3 beautiful and wild girls jump into the cold water, they jiggle, they dance and leave as suddenly as they have arrived.

Tyumen is a very pleasant and clean city, with many tree-lined streets, well preserved historical buildings and well arranged flowers on the pavement. Oks shows me great examples of classic wooden architecture, derelict dachas by the river, an amusement park, the refurbished riverside esplanade and the best ice cream stalls.

The day I leave Tyumen is very hot. Having read accounts of earlier intrepid cyclists in these lands, I'm dreading the attacks of the vicious horse flies and the infamous Siberian mosquitoes but I'm lucky and I don't have any significant problems to report. In fact, insects have been worse in European Russia in June and July. Perhaps the season is now over as nights are getting nippy.

After Tyumen the landscape presents a mixture of fields, forests, meadows with cows and stacks of hay. As I get closer to Omsk, the marshes increase and you can see many interesting birds here. The day I arrive in Osmk is cold and wet and after the rain, I make the acquaintance of some rather large mosquitoes.

I sleep in my tent every night from Tyumen to Omsk. With (often dreadful) hotels a long distance apart, stunning scenery, mosquitoes not being a big problem and many cozy spots to choose from, camping seems to be the sensible thing to do. 

On the fourth day after Tyumen I bump into Hans, a Dutch biker returning from Mongolia. He tells me about a French woman cycling to Mongolia, but he doesn't know where she might be. Later, I meet some Turkish lorry drivers going from Samsun to Krasnoyarsk. One of them, Achmed, speaks Italian and has seen the French cyclist some 10 kms back, near Ishim. I decide to wait for a couple of hours to salute this courageous tourist but no one comes and decide to move on.

Traffic gets quite heavy 100 kms or so before reaching Omsk, the former capital of Siberia and of White Russia.

Beavis and Butthead

Lots of new photos here. In the centre of Yekaterinburg there is a statue that local teenagers doing stunts on their BMX bikes and skateboards call Beavis and Butthead. They represent Tatischiev and de Gennin, who founded the city in 1723. Yekaterinburg is situated in Asia and is the capital of the Urals.

My hosts are waiting for me by the Ford dealership. Boris and Masha are a couple in their mid twenties. Boris owns an on-line shop selling home appliances and Masha is a secretary at a software development company. They're both outdoor pursuit enthusiasts and love snow-boarding and cycling-touring (but have only done it abroad). Last year they went on a bike tour in Turkey and they're planning a month long adventure in China in september.

President Mevdeyev of Russia and Angela Merkel of Germany are in town, which means I am able to take hot showers. In the summer time the local government often switches off the water to carry out repairs.

Boris and Masha finally shed some light on the mystery of the evenly spaced cracks on the Russian roads. In the old days, some roads were made using concrete slabs. When it's too expensive to rebuild the road from scratch, the concrete is covered with asphalt while the gaps between the slabs remain.

The day after I arrive, Boris and I go for a walk by the river, we talk about extreme sports teenagers, snowboarding, Lenin, cars as status symbols, oligarchs and economics. When I mention to Boris that I found Kungur to be beautiful yet rundown, he concludes that in Kungur they still l believe to live in Soviet times and don't understand that: 'something does not come from nothing'. It's hot and we want a beer, we spot a cafe but two guys napping under the canopy tells us the bar is out of order.  Masha joins us after work. First we eat exquisite homemade pirogi, followed by a couple of pints and Beatles music at an underground bar suitably called Yellow Submarine. We end the night at a fancy cocktail bar to bid farewell to Cyril, a friend of Boris and Masha's who's moving to Moscow. There I meet other friends, including a young woman who has just returned from cruising in the French Riviera and Maxim, an extrovert and witty engineer and entrepreneur, who sells porous aluminum and LED lamps for industrial uses and has traveled extensively in Europe. Maxim gives us a lift home on his car and takes a scenic route via the most outstanding architecture of Yekaterinburg. Amidst charming old wooden building, a new city is emerging. Construction is everywhere, flashy skyscrapers and luxury shops are popping up on every corner. But for Masha, modern architecture has no soul.

The following day Masha and I are heading for a jazz concert in the park but end up sidetracked by a crowd at the Church on the Blood. This church was built recently on the site were the Czar Nicholas II and his family were kept captive before they were executed by the Bolsheviks on the 17 of July of 1918. Nicholas and his family have been canonized by the Orthodox church and many believers are here to pay their respects, mourn and pray on the anniversary of their deaths. A choir sings lovely tunes and the mass ends with moving and delicately beautiful bell music. There are some cossacks from the Ukraine but most of the attendees hail from villages from around Russia and beyond and eat pirogi (stuffed buns) and drink kvaz (fermented bread drink).

On the way to Tyumen I gradually loose the mountains as I approach the flatlands of Siberia. Swamps and marshes become more numerous and so do the insects. Clouds of tiny black flies flash mob around my face when I make a stop. The forest is merrily brimming with flowers. It's berry season and punters sell wild berries by the road. One night, I find what seems to be a perfect spot for wild camping, the grass trimmed, hidden by the trees, close to a cafe and a banya... but close to a swamp also. My tent is visited by frogs and a critical mass of mosquitoes.

On a hot and sweaty day I arrive in Tyumen.

Opera at the former Gulag prison

 Shortly before Perm the clock jumps two hours forward. Perm is an industrial city of around one million inhabitants in the heart of the Urals. My host is Albina, a Tatar woman of 26. She works as a project manager for an international venture carrying out an urban regeneration project on the former grounds of the derelict Porm Pert on the river Kama. 

Albina is having a few days off and shows me around Perm. We visit the excellent Art Gallery, which houses a remarkable collection of predominantly, but not only, Russian art, including icons and religious wooden sculptures. Outside of the museum, elderly people dance merrily to the tunes of an energetic blonde singer. It's Friendship and Love day and is hot. We go on a cruise on the Kama river. The boat is packed with celebrating Russians having picnics, drinking and dancing. Later in the evening, we join Albina's colleagues at a 'banya' next to the Kama river. Marek, Albina's boss from the Czech republic, tells me about the history of the country and extolls the virtues of Russian women.

Next day we go to see Fidelio, Beethoven's only opera performed within the former Gulag prison for political prisoners, Perm 36. After the perforamce we meet for dinner with Anastasia, who works at the Perm Opera and a group of German holidaymakers. They are Fabian, a lawyer at the European Central Bank in Frankfurt, Dorothea and Anna, both working in Georgia for GTZ, a German International cooperation organisation and a fourth person whose name I can't remember and is an engineer working on a project to turn C02 into petrol. 

Next day I continue to Kungur, a beautiful yet somehow rundown city sandwiched betwen the Iren and Sylva rivers. My host Roman is away for work and I'm welcome by his charming and hospitable girlfriend Mariana. While I visit the ice caves, it starts raining cats and dogs and decide to stay another day. Mariana shows me all the landmarks and architecture of note, including an art déco wooden house out of a fairy tale. Crowds of teenagers hang out in the parks. 

The following day is cold, my stomach is upset and I don't feel like wild camping. In Acit, they tell me the next hotel is 40 kms away but I've already cycled 110 kms and it's 10 in the evening. I inquire about accommodation alternatives and Igor, a paramedic of the Catastrophic Medicine unit, offers me a bunk bed in a trailer. Igor looks like a Lenin who's realised that communism is not worthwhile after all, has shaved and decided to go pleasure sailing. The next morning, Igor shows me a brown bear in a cage next to the café. The bear was caught as a cub in the forest. Igor tells me that he earns $200 per month, that politics are boring, that his real profession is pilot and wants to buy a second-hand autogiro.

Two days later I arrive in Yekaterinburg. 10 kms or so before Yekaterinburg there's a monument and a café that mark the border Europe and Asia. Asia is represented by a dragon, and the European side by a rooster.

More photos

See more photos here.

The ferry

 More drawings here and photos here. From Kazan I continue to Perm in the Urals. For the first 100kms, still in Tatarstan, traffic is light, roads are in good condition and the landscape is made up of rolling hills, farmed land, small forests, Tatar villages and wooden mosques. In the town of Baltazy I meet Nuriya's brother Bulat, his wife and five children. Bulat shows me around the collective farm, where he's the general manager. Bulat's father Baki gives me a tour of the museum in the village of Karadovan, of which he is the director. The museum is dedicated to the victims of the Great Patriotic War (2nd World War), the history of the Sibirsky Tract (the ancient way connecting Russia with Siberia and China) and Musa Jalil, Tatar poet and and Soviet resistance fighter who died in a Nazi prison in 1944.

Shortly after Baltazy, Tatarstan ends and the road worsens. Firstly the potholes multiply, then the asphalt becomes gravel and in Gonba I see a warning sign showing a car falling into the water. The road ends and I must wait for the ferry. While waiting, I strike a friendship with Artur, a Tatar man of 21 who is a student of Pedagogy and an amateur actor. Artur is headed for the village of Constantinovka, where he will spend the summer holidays helping his family in the farm and invites me to spend the night there. After about three hours the ferry takes us to the other side. It's already 10 in the evening, the mosquitos are bad and pushing the bicycle along the sand road is difficult. Eventually, Artur's father picks us up on his Lada 1600 and we arrive at the village after midnight. There we are greeted by Artur's mother and sister and we eat a delicious potato soup with dill before going to sleep. The next day we have a 'banya' and Artur shows me the farm before we say our goodbyes. Artur's mother gives me a bag with cucumbers, boiled eggs and bread.

From here the road continues to be sand for a few more kilometres and runs through a very deep forest where insects are so annoying that I must wear a headnet. In Kilmez I require a small repair for the bicycle and I wild camp outside of the village of Vikharevo. The following night I find a room in a private apartment next to car body shop in the town of Selty. I'm looking forward to a hot shower but the water heater doesn't work. While I'm walking around naked, a stranger walks in, collects three bottles of vodka and leaves. Ten minutes later he returns and invites me to a 'banya'. I tell him that I would like to rest a bit and that I will join later but he's just standing there, not moving and waiting for me. I give up resisting his invitation and I follow him to a wooden house 150 meters away. Naked men are eating dried fish and roasted meat and drinking beer and vodka. They're celebrating the birthday of a man they call Alexeyevich, who's turning 53, is drunk and commands me to drink one shot of vodka after another. This banya is different to the others I've experienced so far in that when it gets unbearably hot we run out and jump from a platform into an outdoor pool. I didn't expect to be running and jumping in the company of naked strangers but this is a lot of fun.

The next day my head hurts. I continue my journey and I wild camp for the night. The following day, while I'm having a cup of tea on the road, a shabby old beggar with one arm emerges out of the forest, does a begging round in the cafe and returns to the forest with a bottle of beer. Later I see a baby driving a car, a dead cat, a youngster singing on the road and two men playing cards on a steam roller.

In Bol Sosnova, I meet a hitchhiker who insists on asking me for money and a Ukrainian cyclist who is riding a bicycle from Kharkov in the Ukraine to Yekaterinburg in the Urals, to meet his girlfriend there. His one speed bike is old and rusty and is missing one pedal. In Ocher, I find a motel and a 'banya'. When I return from the 'banya', I find a smily bare-chested moustachioed man in my room watching an old Soviet-era action film. He coughs constantly and looks like a heavy snorer. I'm dreading the night.

Next stop: Perm: 115 kms.

I am your father!

More images here. Liza and her boyfriend Andy are my hosts in Nizhny. Liza is 23 and speaks German, English and Chinese and is a vegetarian. She works as a translator and has lived in China. She tells me that although she doesn't remember anything about Soviet times, she has a recollection of the 1991 coup which emptied the shops for three months, During this time her familiy managed to stock up on large amounts of pasta which they bartered with their neighbours. Andy is jack of all trades, learned English playing computer games and has a Darth Vader tee shirt with "I am your father" written on it. Andy is going to a job interview for a managerial position but has no idea what the job is about. In Russia the role of manager is common and it could mean being the cleaning manager in charge of a broom and a mop. If you're ever in need of dreadlocks while in Nizhny Novgorod, Andy is the man for you.

The road after Nizhny gets worse and traffic is very heavy. Imagine pedalling up a steep hill. It's nearly 40 degrees celsius, the road is narrow, there's no hard shoulder, a Russian lorry situated at arm's length behind you is honking the horn endlessly and horseflies are hovering around your head. When this is over, you glide downhill but there are spoke-wrecking potholes and cracks on the asphalt for what resembles an eternity. Then there's another hill. Sometimes it appears as if the traffic has disappeared completely and one instant later, a cluster of lorries and cars materialises like the wrath of Ivan the Terrible.

The M-7 is one of the two main roads going east. I spend one night at a road-side motel on the M-7 motorway. This seems to be an important gathering point for lorries. These are the lorries that bring you the dental floss, the digital camera batteries, your Amazon purchases, the National Geographic, the Organic Muesli, the Barbies and the sunglasses. It may not be beautiful, but this is also our world.

While cycling on the road may be difficult at times, there are many things to compensate for the hardships, like the babushka who offers me two gherkins or the woman at the cafe who gives me a cheese sandwich and an apple.

The day I arrive in Kazan it's 40 degrees, the hottest temperature since 1917. Kazan is the capital of Tatarstan, conquered for Russia by the troops of Ivan the Terrible in the 16th century. Kazan is today a thriving oil-rich city where Tatar and Russian are official languages. Many Tatars are Muslims.

My Kazan host is Nuriya, a 46 year old Tatar ginecologist and art therapist. She has two daughters, one lives in South Carolina and the other in Cypruss. Nuriya introduces me to Parida, a teacher of English. Together we visit the National Museum of Tatarstan, where a Halal food fair is taking place. We go for a stroll in the old part of Kazan under the scorching sun and later we meet Timur, Parida's son. Timur is studying architecture in Florence, Italy. Parida and Timur are going to spend a few days at a friend's dacha along the Volga river. They invite me to come. We take a 'rocket' boat and in one hour we reach the village where the dacha is located. While on the boat we wave at passengers on other boats and they wave back at us. The dacha belongs to lovely Volodya and Marian. Volodya's neighbour Serguey invites us to a Russian banya, where I experience for the first time being whacked by a bunch of birch twigs. I find the experience very relaxing. Later we have a beer and we chit chat over a cup of tea (made with leaves from Sergey and his wife's Luvov's garden). When it gets dark we walk to a hill overlooking the Volga. From here to the other side, there's around 5 kms. Silence envelopes everything. The moon is full. On the way back to the dacha, we collect water from a spring. Timur and I sleep at Sergeui's house and I'm woken up by the roosters and the sound of flies buzzing around the window. In the morning we go for a swim in the Volga. In the afternoon, Volodya, Marian and I return to Kazan on the car.

Timur explains the mystery of the outrageously stunning Russian women: there are more girls than guys and competition is fierce. Timur tells me that western Europeans are very polite but always try to keep some distance with strangers, while Russians may appear rude but are genuine, generous and kind. When he's in Italy he misses Russia, when he's in Russia, he misses Italy.

I go back to the dentist and service the bicycle. During my final day in Kazan a TV crew comes to interview me and I later appear in the 7 and 10 o'clock news. Olga acts as my interpreter. Olga is a lovely girl originally from the Caucasus. She came to Kazan to live with her aunt who was sick. Her aunt died but she decided to stay. She's studying English language and philology and loves France and all things French.

I bid adieu to the M-7. From now on I will use smaller roads. Next destination: Perm in the Urals. Distance ridden so far: 860 kms.

Evening in Nizhny Novgorod

9 PM. The sun is high and so is the moon. Eternal flame for the fallen

soldiers. Lazy time in the Kremlin. The mighty Volga and strolling

Russians. Then the sunset.

Russia in images

www.flickr.com

1st week in Russia

See more pictures here.
On the 4th of June, I take the train from London to Hamburg. I spend one week in Hoheluft West with Mini and I finish off a couple of projects. On Friday 11th we go to Berlin for the weekend. When we arrive, summer is in full force, everyone is out celebrating the good weather and we think we have found paradise! We stay with Katrin. She's Mini's friend's Julia's mum from Kiel. Katrin is originally from Berlin. Her parents lived in Latin America and her sister was born in Quito. From Berlin, Katrin moved to Kiel and returned to her birth place after retirement. She's now 70. Katrin lives in a community where only women are allowed to be proprietors. A small flat is available for the tenant's guests. There's a shared garden, a shared activities and exhibition room, a shared roof, a green rooftop and a bike shed. This is what I call enlightened living. Katrin lives in Kreutzberg, an alternative neighbourhood of Berlin where there's a very bohemian atmosphere and an open air colourful Turkish market. Berlin is a laid back city: ground zero for organic food, tree lined clean streets and a heaven for cyclists. It seems to be a very human-centric Metropolis. We have a wonderful time, Katrin treats us like monarchs, we see live comedy on the streets (including an Elvis Presley impersonator eating raw onion and interacting with the public and a flying man) and the World Cup is all around us. Big flat screen TVs seem to be on almost every corner.

On Sunday the 13th, I board the Belin to Moscow train. It takes 27 hours but it feels like 27 minutes. I share a comparment with two Russians, one of them, Musa, 30 years-old, is an interesting character. He lives in Berlin, speaks French, English, Russian and Chechnian and wants to learn Italian and Spanish. 10 years ago, his family came to the conclusion there was no future in Chechnia and decided to send him to Europe. Normally the elder son would be the chosen one, but he was already living in Moscow. Since the youngest son's duty is to look after the parents, it was Musa's destiny to live in Europe. This would cost Musa's family 5,000 dollars. Musa is by profession a journalist and a boxer! but he now sells German cars in Russia. He travels to Moscow on the train, shows pictures of the car for sale to a potential buyer and if there's a deal, he gets the money and returns to Berlin. Next, he drives the car to Moscow. Musa wants to be rich, have a yacht and loves beautiful girls. According to him, Moscow is where the money is and the girls are beautiful and easy.

The Russian train from Berlin is very pleasant. Every car has an attendant who can set up your bed or make you a cup of tea. We arrive in Moscow on a beautiful summer evening. Taking the bike and the luggage on the underground system is a bit of an ordeal. After 30 minutes I reach Krashirskaya station, where I wait for my host Stanislav for one hour. While I wait, a number of people approach me to ask questions about my bicycle. My recumbent bicycle gets a lot of attention and is very conducive to social interactions.

Stanislav is 32 and lives with his five-year old son Timur in a studio-flat from Stalin's time. He makes dinner consisting of buckwheat, gerkhins, tomatoes and cheese. All three of us sleep in the same room, the only one. I sleep on the floor, Timur sleeps in a cradle and Stanislav in a double bed. Stanislav works in IT and Timur spends the day at the kindergarten. Little Timur would like to join the army when he grows up. I ask Stanislav about recycling and he replies that in Russia recycling is not popular today but in Soviet times one could trade 20kgs of newspaper for a book.

On Tuesday I explore Moscow on my own. My natural tendency is to wander but because I'm here for only day, I make sure that I visit the obligatory landmarks first and I see the Kremlin, Red Square and St. Basil's cathedral. After ticking my boxes, I ramble and I stumble upon a small and charming icon museum. Wandering in Moscow is not easy. Many streets are of gargantuan proportions and crossing is to be done via undergound passages. Street traffic is dense and fast and getting across the other side of the road may take 15 minutes or longer and you have to run.

Moscow has a fascination for all things luxury. There are exclusive brands and shops everywhere. SUVs abound and most vehicles sport tinted glasses. I notice something I have not seen anywhere else before: flocks of posh young girls clad in famous brands, high heels and all sexed up. Moscow is not a love at first sight kind of place.

Cycling out of Moscow eastbound is no joy ride either. It's raining all day long, traffic is heavy and the truck fumes are black and smelly. After 104 kms, I decide to spend the night in an pleasant, clean and comfortable roadside hotel in Pakrov. Whenever I stop somewhere people are very curious about the bicycle and they want to know where I come from and where I'm going. So far, everybody I've encountered has been very friendly and helpful.

95 kms after Pakrov, I arrive in Vladimir, a historical city of the Golden Ring. I meet my host Gena outside of the Golden Gate in the centre of Vladimir. Gena lives with his brother and his uncle in a tiny flat. He has a fish tank in the bedroom and the walls are covered with pictures of tigers and wolves and posters of Vladimir Vysotsky, a Russian singer song-writer. We sleep in the same bed.

Gena is a programmer at a local hospital and a self taught and self made 30 year old man. He doesn't believe in politics, thinks that politicians are corrupt and if he wants something, he does it himself. Gena loves nature and would love to live in the forest but he's not interested in ecology. He's married but recently separated after his wife ran off with another man. He was initially sad but he now realises it's for the best as he understands what qualities to look out for in his next wife. He wants a woman who enjoys spending time in the village. Gena shows me all the sights in Vladimir and invites to spend the day in Koloksha, the village where his grandmother lives, 20kms from Vladimir. In the village, Gena raises rabbits, which he sells for meat in Moscow, keeps chickens for eggs and grows all sorts of vegetables. Gena's babushka Raia makes dinner: fried battered courgettes with dill, mashed potatoes with smitlana and a tomato, green onion and cucumber salad. For Gena, a big fat sausage too. Everything except the sausage is grown in the village.

The following day, I resume my riding in direction to Nizhny Novgorod. Gena has given me a Spirit of the Forest necklace, which I hope will protect me against the heavy traffic. I ride along a dual carriageway in good condition and the hard shoulder is mostly ample but not always. It's getting hotter and the first mosquitos and horseflies appear, a small sample of what's to come later on in Siberia, no doubt. I spend the night in a shabby, dirty and run-down roadside truck hotel 40kms before Nizhny.

On Monday, my ride is short: only 42 kms. I want to spend one day in Nizhny Novgorod, to rest, do laundry, plan the rest of my trip and send some bulky items back home. I will meet my host Liza at 7 in the evening. As I have plenty of time available, I stop at cozy little forest by the side of the road to cook pasta for lunch. I see a man on a bicycle carrying big containers of water and ask him if there's a place to swim nearby. It's very hot and I wouldn't mind a quick splash. He tells me there's a river 8 kms away and he offers me a drink of water and invites me to his dacha 150 meters away. There I meet his wife, who offers me hand picked strawberries and keeps telling me to eat. I can't stop drinking water. The thermometer indicates 36 degress and decide to take Alexander's offer of a rain-water shower. Alexander and his ladyfriend spend the summer in the dacha and winter in the city of Derzynsk. When I leave, my kind hosts give me green onions (because I'm vegetarian), a 1.5l bottle of a water and a pocket knife as a present. I'm touched by their kindness.

Nizhny is a huge city by the Volga river and it takes me 2 hours to reach the centre, Gorky Square. I meet Liza on Pokrovskaya street, a pedestrianised street in the center of Nizhny Novgorod.

Cycled so far: 438 kms.